Ave Atque Vale
by Spinesless
Summary: John Watson can only watch as his world crashes around him.
1. X

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock. **

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><p>This is not the first time that Mycroft Holmes waits for his brother to regain consciousness.<p>

It is not the second time.

It is not the third.

It is not even the fourth time.

Mycroft Holmes will not admit to just how many times he has sat beside his brother's comatose body, waiting for him to wake up. If you ask him, he might threaten you with some sort of incarceration if you don't immediately_ bug off_.

The elder brother sighs under his breath, his head leaning against his right hand his elbow resting on the arm of the chair. In his left he loosely holds his unnecessarily large umbrella.

The only sounds are the tapping of moderate rain against the window and the _whirr_ and _beep _of the machines hooked up to his brother. Occasionally there is a murmur of excitement from the hallway, but as of late, it has been quite uneventful. Beyond the drawn drapes of the window, it is dark. The digital clock beside the bed reads a time late at night, late enough for it to be early morning. Mycroft stifles a wide yawn.

He had relieved that John Watson a few hours previously, telling his brother's colleague to return to Baker Street and get a bit of sleep; he'd call him if his condition changed.

That is a lie, however. Mycroft wouldn't call, even if his brother did suddenly awaken; he would call Watson in the morning, which was proper. No need to have him stumbling in the hospital at absurd hours.

That was only _if _his brother's condition changed.

Sherlock lay in the bed, head elevated slightly, an oxygen mask clasped over the lower portion of his face. His cheek bones jut out, hollower than usual, the doctors said he hadn't be eating. Of course he wasn't. He never did.

The spliced blue and red veins and capillaries are strikingly prominent against Sherlock's translucent skin; shadows under his eyes are like smudges of charcoal on a canvas. His curls are splayed against the pillow, coiling against his temple and forehead.

It's an upsettingly reoccurring and familiar sight for dear Mycroft. His brother's hobby/job was a dangerous one at times; working with the police means he has enemies, that he's a target. Mycroft's surveillance helped somewhat, but damn Sherlock was always sneaking around it.

And then, of course, there was Sherlock's other, less savoury pastimes. They usually included cylinders of rolled paper, powders, and injections. It's to help me think! he'd cry in vain. I'm bored!

Mycroft heard it all before.

But Sherlock, _goddamn him_, the self bastard, didn't think of how it was a stress on others. A parasite, his brother thinks bitterly. He's a leech sucking us dry. He latches on and wont let go.

He rubs his temples and looks up guiltily. _I shouldn't be thinking such things_, he thinks somberly. It's taboo to speak ill of someone in a hospital, even if they might deserve it.

Mycroft clears his throat. Checks his watch. Sighs.

He dozes, and dreams of Sherlock.

His little brother, with his shock of curls. His hair matted with blood. He's hunched over in an alley and Mycroft slowly approaches, calling his name. "Sherlock?" He lifts his head and his brother staggers backward. For his eyes are hollow, and blood leaks from fractures in his skin.

The scene crumbles, and suddenly, he's on the stairs of 221b, pushing the door open with the tip of his umbrella.

"Sherlock!" he calls. "Where the hell _are _ you..."

There's a mountain of needles and empty syringes in the living room, reaching almost to the ceiling, and atop it lies Sherlock, fingers together in his thinking stance, reclining, eyes closed like he's lost in thought. He shifts, and everything topples.

Mycroft awakes to a bloodshot Dr. John Watson gently shaking his shoulder.

"Come on, then," the Doctor says uncertainly.

Mycroft curses himself for following asleep for so long. He clears his throat. "What time is it?"

"Eight," John says, glancing between the two brothers. He looks run down and slightly embarrassed. His sweater is wrinkled and his hair is a bit ruffled, like he came in a rush without combing it down.

Mycroft checks his watch as well, nodding. He rises, but doesn't go to leave. Instead, he approaches the window, stripes of pale light across his body. He moves the blinds over a bit, peering outside.

"Contrary to popular belief, I _do_ care about my brother." He let's the blinds slide back into place. "That's why I offered you money to spy on him for me. He keeps finding the cameras I install in the flat. Got a bit expensive to keep replacing. "

John opens his mouth to speak, but Mycroft shakes his head, just slightly.

"It's not easy to live with Sherlock, is it?"

John blinks. "Er-no, it's not."

"Yes, I know, I used to. Always needlessly complicating everything. Couldn't just sit down, shut up, and do as he was told." He swallows sharply, still gazing toward the window. "He's reckless, obnoxious, a blatant rule breaker, and is absolutely atrocious in social situations. Yes, he's difficult at times, but that doesn't mean I don't love him."

John's face softens. "Mycroft. I know you love him. I'm sure no one loves him more."

Mycroft turns towards his brother's bed, a sad smile quirking at the corners of his mouth. "Thank you, John."

The background beeping quickens, but neither men notice.

The latter swallows and clears his throat, looking at the floor. "Mycroft."

"Mm?" He looks far away.

"I'm going to contact Detective Inspector Lestrade and have him take a look around the flat."

Mycroft frowns. "Why, John? There is no foul play afoot. Just an addict and his release."

_Come on, John_, he will himself. "It doesn't _appear_ so, that's true, but living with Sherlock has shown that nothing is really as it seems." _Continue_. "Like... like his head wound." He gestures. "There wasn't any blood on any of the furniture. And I didn't find a needle when I returned earlier. I just-want a second opinion."

Translation: I don't want to believe Sherlock has slipped up.

The beeps are even faster now.

Both of them turn to the pallid detective. The numbers and ridges on the heart monitor begin to rise, and not gradually. A crease appears on Mycroft's forehead, even he realizes something isn't right.

The blood pumps loudly in John's ears, and he does something he promised never to do. Never in battle, never in the field, never working a case.

He freezes.

The scene makes no sense even as the doctors and nurses burst in, calling orders and clattering about.

_No._

He's safe at home, watching a gaudy, inaccurate medical drama as Sherlock shouts obscenities at the telly.

He is not watching his friend die.

A single tone cuts the air and someone is shouting, "_Get them out of here!"_

Time does not move as the monitor registers a flat line.

_No_.

John Watson's world crashes around him, full speed.

"_Sherlock!_

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><p><em><strong><strong>_**A/N:review this if u crey evry tiem :'(**

**Haha, sorry, I had to.**

**Hello! This is my first Sherlock fic so advice and feedback on being in character, as well as anything else is welcomed.**

**Edit;; I rewrote a few parts of chapter one, it should make more sense and flow better.**

**Thank you for reading, reviews are, as always, appreciated but not mandatory. **


	2. Start

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock. **

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><p><em>Several hours prior<em>

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><p>It wasn't a danger night.<p>

It wasn't a high-risk evening.

It wasn't a problem day.

It was a grocery run.

It was standard, really; there was never any damn food in the house, and John was hungry. Mrs. Hudson was away for the better part of the week, visiting her remaining family or something of the sort. So John called, "Be back eventually!" grabbed his coat, and was on his way. Sherlock barely grunted in response, but he had _responded_.

John didn't take a cab. The man on the telly said the next day or so would be the last for a little bit of nice weather; then, rain. So, John walked. It was a mostly clear night, with a sliver of moon in the corner of the sky. He had gotten a few items, paid, and walked back.

Uneventful. Painfully so. He took less than an hour, dawdling only slightly.

So when there was no response at 221b, he thought nothing of it.

He realized why when he walked through the door.

On account of the fact that John Watson hadn't yet lived with Sherlock Holmes for quite that long, he hadn't had the (dis)pleasure of finding his flatmate unconscious on the floor.

The doctor cursed himself, cursed Sherlock, cursed his friend who recommended each other to live together.

The groceries fell to the scuffed floor with a muffled crash, and John bolted. he was an army doctor after all; this was his job.

John knelt beside his flatmate. "Sherlock," he called. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

He rolled the him onto his back, keen eyes searching. They saw a gash on his forehead, still bleeding, and observed no splash of blood on the corner of a table or the arm of a chair. They followed from a shoulder to a rolled up sleeve and bare forearm.

_No._

John's breath caught in his throat and he allowed himself half a moment. _No, god damn it, he's _clean!

But the evidence proves otherwise.

Sherlock's chest did not move. It did not rise and fall with the expel and intake of air.

_No._

John's hands went over wrists and a neck, desperately searching. Expert fingers pressed against the jugular, seeking desperately.

Ah!

There it is!

Faint, but present.

John gasped in relief and pulled out his phone, dialing numbers quick. ""I need an ambulance, 221b, Baker Street," He was shouting. "_Hurry_."

There was no time to stop the bleeding head wound, breathing was a bit more important. John remembered the CPR lessons from his early days in medical school, where being an army doctor didn't even cross his mind. He had expectations of saving lives in a neat little hospital, bandaging up broken arms, cutting out appendixes, the occasional restart of a heart.

Nothing ever does go according to plan.

Three minutes without air, the body starts to shut down. Organs die. Brain damage.

But-how long had it been?

He leaned over his friend, hands together, compressing his chest in short bursts.

_Goddamn_ you, Sherlock Holmes.

He told Mycroft it hadn't been a danger night.

"It never is," he had answered dryly.

John didn't know what to say to that. He gaped for a minute at the elder Holmes, who adjusted his cuffs like it was as common as rain that his younger brother had to be rushed to the hospital. "He was doing so well, too." He let out a gust of air. "Pity."

"Mycroft." John finally found his words. "Something is different this time, something is wrong. I was only gone for an hour, at _most_-"

"John, I've had Sherlock shoot up whilst I was in the next room over." He looked so annoyed, the hand clutching his omnipresent umbrella tensed. "Please try not to beat yourself up _too_ much about this. Had he been eating?"

"Sorry?"

"Sherlock. He looked a bit thin. Had he been eating anything?"

John blinked. "I believe so." He wracked his memory for a shot of Sherlock taking a bite of something over the previous week or so. He came up empty, however. "Actually..."

Mycroft sighed. "I know we didn't have an _official_ agreement, Dr Watson, but I at least hoped the well being of your friend was of somewhat importance."

"Hang on. Mycroft, you just told me not to worry about this."

"Well, assuming there weren't any signs, of course."

Something inside broke, just a little. "I told him to eat, but I was not going to force food down his throat."

"Well, maybe when you told him to ingest something, you should have specified not to ingest _narcotics._"

"Well _excuse me_, Mycroft, monitoring your little brother isn't _my_ job. Actually, it's yours, isn't it?" John turned on his heel and headed toward the sliding doors of the hospital.

"Where are you going?"

John shot him a piercing look. "At least one of us cares about Sherlock Holmes."

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><p><strong>AN: Hi! As a bit of a note, I've rewritten parts of chapter one, so if you would go back and reread it, that would be lovely. Since this began as a one-shot, I'm kind of writing this backwards, but I know what's going to happen! Finding the words, however, is hard.**

**If you have any questions, comments, or complaints, don't even think about hesitating to voice them. I'm always listening.**

**Thank you so much for reading! It means a lot. **


	3. Evidence

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.**

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><p><em>Please, God, let him live.<em>

Death surrounds us. It's engrained in our very being. For what are we, really, but ticking time bombs. We exist for merely a brief flit of the universe, and then we are gone. We are so tragically insignificant.

_Please, God, let him live._

People will do anything to beat death. Their own lives are so meaningless, they feel they've been cheated somehow, but they haven't. You live you live you live and then, you die. No hacks or cheats or escape.

_Please, God, let him live_.

But occasionally, there is a flash and a zap of electricity and a pump of muscle and blood restarts and one is allowed to continue to exist. Lungs contract and take in oxygen, the most essential of anything, really, and the person is given another chance, and they better not waste it.

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><p>It takes the doctors three tries to restart his heart.<p>

He does not open his eyes; he does not awaken with a gasp. It is much less eventful, just the returning of the consistent _beeps_. The sharp stabs of noise are like music to John's ears. _Thank you_, and he almost breaks down right there.

But he can hold himself together, he can put up a front. Mycroft looks stricken and pale and the knuckles that clutch his umbrella are white. When the doctors finally leave, it's as if nothing ever happened. The eldest Holmes resumes his seat by his brother's bedside, despite John's protests that Mycroft should go home and get some sleep. He is indelible.

John heads outside. He stands beneath the concrete overhang and watches the rain fall for a moment or two, and he thinks. He _reflects_, he's even deducing, just a little. The base of his skull aches with a constant pounding he hears in his ears and for the moment, he wishes he had a cigarette. He just needs something to take the edge off this feeling. It's a shame there's no smoking on hospital grounds. It's a shame he doesn't smoke.

John takes his phone from his pocket with trembling hands and dials a number. He doesn't hit call, just stares and thinks and wonders. Images from last night flash by.

Sherlock on the floor, the gash on his forehead, the pockmark on his arm. No needle. No blood on the furniture. When John returned to 221b later, much later that night, he skirted the edges of the living room, trying not to disturb anything for later analysis except for the most cursory of inspections. He upped the stairs to his bedroom and collapsed onto his bed and could not would not sleep, he tried he tried he tried and when he opened his eyes it was seven o clock and good lord why wasn't he by Sherlock's side?

His feelings are mixed; he is denial, really. He does not want to admit the possibility and probable fact that Sherlock has recessed, that he is using again, because it hurts too much to toy with the idea that he's been betrayed. He does not want to feel negative towards the consulting detective.

Denial is the reason he presses the _call_ button, because what the hell, it's worth a shot.

The phone rings three times before "_Hello?_"

John opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He stands there with the phone to his ear, gaping.

"_Hello_?" the voice asks again, getting impatient.

John swallows. "Hello," he manages to stammer out. "Greg? It's John, John Watson." He forgoes titles because this is more of a personal call.

"_Oh, yes, should've recognized your number. Morning, John. Is Sherlock finished with those case files yet? I'll be needing them back if he is, and if he isn't, I still need them._"

"I, ah, I dunno. I think I've seen them about, though, I dunno if he's interested in them."

"_Uh-huh. Pity, I figured that cold case with the drag queen would be _at least _a seven-point-three_."

"Oh, well, you know Sherlock." His throat tightens. There's a pause. He takes a shaky breath and wonders why he called the Detective Inspector in the first place.

"_John? Is something the matter? Has something happened?"_

Ah. Yes. That's why,

"Yeah, Lestrade. Something has."

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><p>John arrives at the cafe first. He stares, unfocused into his cup of coffee, spoon spinning circles in the foam. It takes Lestrade a second time of calling his name before he looks up.<p>

The Detective Inspector resists the urge to cringe; dark circles sit under John's weary eyes, the lines around his mouth are tighter than usual and he looks as if someone reached into his chest cavity and snapped something of importance. _Good lord_, Greg thinks, and takes the seat opposite.

A waitress takes his order of "Just tea, thanks" and a minute later he's stirring a bit of sugar into a nearly identical cup.

The men then sit, John staring into nothing and Lestrade staring at John, mind buzzing but patient and he waits until the other is ready.

He does not wait too long, however.

"I found him on the floor last night," John murmurs, looking up at the DI. "Unconscious. Not breathing. Gash on his forehead. Cocaine, they said. He crashed this morning-" John rubs his eyes- "Took, what, three tries? Four? Until his heart decided to bloody work."

Lestrade blinks, eyes wide. _Good god. _

John sits back. "Still hasn't woken up. They don't know when he will. They don't know _if_ he will."

Lestrade releases his breath. Clears his throat. Sips his tea. "Thank you for telling me," he says at last.

"Sorry I was so cryptic over the phone."

"It's fine. Is there anything else?"

"Yeah, there is. God-you're gonna think I'm crazy."

"Unlikely."

A shadow of a smile. It vanishes quickly. "I just-I went back, to the flat later last night-or earlier this morning-regardless, I went back, and _there was no needle_. There wasn't any blood on anything either, like he struck his head going down. I mean, there might be a needle, under a chair, or something, but that's why I asked you here, too, instead of just telling you over the phone."

"You... want me to help you look?"

"Well, yeah, I s'pose. I want to be-more official?" He sighs. Quieter, he adds, "I don't know, Greg, I think I'm just in denial over this whole thing."

Lestrade half-stirs his lukewarm tea. "'S alright. No harm in taking a look around, right?"

John almost smiles again. "Thanks."

"Well, sure. You look like hell, mate."

John gives a short laugh that's much too loud. "I _feel_ like hell."

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><p>"No sign of forced entry," Lestrade observes as John fiddles with the latch.<p>

"No, no, there wouldn't be." He lets out a sigh. "I left the door unlocked when I went out. Didn't expect to take too long. Queues were longer than I thought. . ." The door in question swings open and the two men trump up the stairs, the doctor first.

In a new light, the living room looks nearly alien. John remembered when he first encountered 221b and it's inhabitant, clutter and various objects scattered about haphazardly, but it was so charming, and it still is, but there's a chill in it's usual cozy air. The Union Jack pillow has fallen beside the sofa, and several pieces of paper have fallen to the floor. An overturned mug lies on the rug. It looks as if someone jostled a table and failed to clean up, or...

_Or..._

Or if there had been a struggle, of some sorts.

Lestrade and John carefully comb the living room, eyes peeled, looking for evidence. They search under furniture and objects and rifle through the trash, looking for blood or needles or substance, John look's through all Sherlock's old hiding places but it turns up nothing.

"He wouldn't have had time to get rid of the needle," Lestrade mutters to himself, placing the pillow back onto the armchair. "John, I've got to admit, it looks like you're on to something."

He breathes a sigh of relief, and Lestrade looks to him, face very serious. "But you have to understand, only Sherlock knows what happened. We have to wait for him to wake up, and he'll be able to tell us what happened."

_If. _If he wakes up.

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><p><strong>AN: This chapter was very painful to write. Something about the words, they wouldn't really come out right, I guess I rewrote this chapter six times before I got it manageable, and even now I find it sub par. God, even FFN wouldn't work, I'm writing this author's note on a shitty school computer surrounded by shrieking teenagers. **

**Rant aside.**

**I hope you find it in you to send some feedback my way, and give your opinion on this chapter especially. Writing Lestrade in character was frustrating, as was making the dialogue natural. Good, bad, what have you, I'd like to hear your thoughts.**

**As always, thank you so much for reading. Less than a week until Reichenbach! I think we can make it.**


	4. Comatose

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.**

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><p>He feels consciousness fall away gradually.<p>

He orients himself first, fixing where is up and which way is down. He locates his head, a roiling mass of thoughts and fog, then his body, and finally his limbs. He sorts out textures, like what is soft yet firm somewhere against his back. Nothing hurts, exactly. He feels heavier, like his bones are made of concrete and lead runs through his veins in place of blood. It takes him a few more blurred moments to organize his thoughts further, they rush past with nothing but mere glimpses to focus on.

He reaches out and grasps on to a distant beeping, holding on to it for dear life. It's a central, exact focal point and he takes it in and surrounds himself with it. He draws the sound closer and it's like he's rising from the depths of the ocean, feeling tendrils of water smoke sleep roll off. Not completely, though, they hold him fast in a hazy half-awake state.

He opens his eyes.

Briefly, everything is white and his thoughts race and he _wonders_, but then he blinks, once twice three times and he hears a sharp intake of breath that is not his own.

The whiteness is really just a ceiling, a ceiling of tiles at that andcertainly _not_ heavenly vapor, no, of course not.

Somewhere beside him, John Watson is crossing the short distance to his bed and oh god he's in a bed, he's in a pastel room and something among the fog clicks and _he's in a hospital_. Everything is eerily familiar and yet alien all at once. The haunting feeling of deja vu overtakes him, no, no, something is entirely not right.

John notices the panic on his stricken face. "Hey," he says gently. "Calm down, it's alright." His voice is there and soothing and more real than anything Sherlock has ever heard in his life, he takes hold of that lifeline and breathes.

He tries to swallow but it hurts, and how long has he been out––what happened, John, tell me, _what did I take this time?_

A cup of water approaches him and he's not aware enough to feel his dignity slipping away as John holds the cup, a straw between his lips and this isn't water, it's _gold_. He sips and swallows and coughs and sips and sips and coughs again and alright, that's enough now.

The tendrils are gripping him tighter now, dragging him back under. He fights he fights he fights he stops he succumbs.

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><p>John is relieved, John is happy, John is over the moon.<p>

He watches his friend slip back into sleep but this time that's _fine_, because Sherlock will be alright, Sherlock will be okay. He wants to cry from relief and exhaustion but he just smiles into his hands and stares at the pale pale man.

He leaves the room to try and find a doctor and phone Mycroft and tell him that Sherlock will be alright, that Sherlock's fine.

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><p>The doctor tells him that, unlike in the movies, people don't awaken from comas all of a sudden, that it'll take a few days until he's fully up and responsive, did he say anything? No? Well that's alright, that happens sometimes, and John knows all this (he's a doctor, after all). When the doctor leaves John phones Mycroft. The elder Holmes says that the news is good, that he'll find his way over to the hospital later. John can't read his voice, can't tell if he's as relieved as he is, but he must be.<p>

He texts Lestrade and goes down to the cafe and he gets a cup of coffee he's built up a begrudging resistance to, but he still adds half a dozen sugar packets to it. He texts Lestrade who says that they're just finishing up in the field, he'll drop by as soon as he can.

John walks the wide white familiar hallway to the room and enters and freezes and he's hyperaware of his movements, his breath, his blinking, his heart in his ears and the cup crashes to the sterile tile floor but he doesn't notice, he approaches the chair by Sherlock's bed where he had sat too many hours.

On it sits a box, cheerily wrapped in red metallic paper and tied with a big silver bow, so tragically unassuming. The tag reads 'Get Better Soon!' in curly handwriting.

With shaking hands John removes the lid.

A syringe is tucked away inside, the tip just barely discolored with a drop or two of dried blood. It rests on a bed of soft velvet, like it's some hideous piece of jewelry. On the inside of the lid there is a card that says

_I thought he'd _never_ wake up!_

_xoxo _

_-JM_

and John is shaking John is shaking John is crumbling.

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><p><strong>AN: sob**

**this is really awful I'm sorry 8( **

**and really LATE**

**I understand if you all hate me **

**thank you for reading and waiting until I updated, I'll be more regular in the future**

**I accept all sorts of questions and comments and reviews and critiques, I want to hear if you love my story and if you hate it.**

**Thank you so much for reading.**


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